Stay
by l'author
Summary: Viktor and Yurio's lives are intertwined, so what hurts Viktor hurts Yuri, too. A study on coming out in homophobic Russia and the brotherly relationship between Viktor and Yurio. warnings for violence and alcohol abuse


They say you can't know Viktor Nikiforov without admiring him at least a little bit. He's the winner of five consecutive Grand Prix Final gold metals. He's a creator of magnificent choreography. He's a true sportsman, committed to the competition, but supportive and warm to be around. He exudes confidence without seeming arrogant or condescending. His competitors are rarely sour about his victories, fully enamored by his performance and charm.

On the other hand, Yuri Plisetsky thinks Viktor is a moron, and maybe a bit of an ass.

It was the eve Viktor and Yuuri Katsuki's wedding. Yuuri's whole family was there, drinking and dancing, and the happy couple's fellow skaters flew into Hasetsu for the marriage. The Katsukis threw the two a combined bachelor's party at the hot springs. They brought sake and cocktails and pork cutlet bowls and vatrushka and musicians and the many guests into the springs to dance and indulge themselves. Yakov, no matter how much he huffed and puffed about it, had happily split the celebration's bill with the Katsuki family. Although Viktor leapt up to embrace Yakov after that, all the guests seemed to recognize a small void created by two absent figures.

All seemed to be going well, with friends tipsily dancing, taking pictures, flattering Yuuri's mother with compliments about her superior cooking skills. Yurio hung back at a table with Otabek, making snide remarks about the "absolutely disgusting" couple that fed each other strawberries with adoration shimmering in their eyes. Phichit approached to snap a few pictures for their social media accounts. The couple drew close to smile for the camera, and things went south.

Viktor and Yuuri clasped each other's ringed hands, and posed in front of a blooming sakura bush. Phichit took the photo, but seemed to tell Yuuri to post it on his instagram instead. Unexplicibly, Viktor's face fell. Yuuri chuckled and took the phone to post the picture, and Viktor excused himself. Yuuri nodded at him and looked at Phichit with an uneasy smile.

Yurio glared at the door that Viktor, as though coerced by a Russian blizzard, exited through.

 _No._

Five minutes passed, and Yuuri was systematically glancing at the door throughout his dance with Chris.

 _No. You idiot_.

Ten minutes passed, and people started to wonder where Viktor had gone off to. Yuuri shook his hands wildly, insisting he was in the bathroom or something.

 _No. Not after everything you taught me. This isn't who we are._

...but even Yuuri seemed to only believe that because he was gripping onto hope with outstretched fingertips and the desperate need to avoid thinking otherwise.

Yurio rose from his seat.

"Phichit. What the Hell did you say to Viktor?"

Phichit looked at him questioningly, hands still reaching across the bar to grab his third martini. "Hmm? Oh, I told Yuuri he'd have to post the picture 'cause I can't have my parents seeing that on my wall. Why, is there a problem?"

Yes, there's a problem, you idiot. You don't know him like I know him. You only know the parts of him that are strong, that took years of pain to construct. You don't know the parts of him that still burn, that still tear, that still hold the scars of hot coffee splattered on the white and red tiles of a bathroom in Moscow. You don't know how many stitches it took to close that bleeding wound, the ones that are strong, the ones that you just ripped out of his aching flesh.

Yurio's eyes grazed over Otabek, still seated patiently in the corner, and staring back at him with all the warm conviction he needed.

 _Not after everything we've been through. We've come so far._

Yurio stormed out of the house, heart throbbing in his chest. How had things fallen apart so easily? He'd thought they'd healed: that hugs in rinks full of people that knew could be the salve on the deep open wound of being told you can never go home, of fists colliding with jaws and splatters of red and brown on a wall - impacts people can hear, but don't take the time to see. How had they not been enough? How had the stitches been sliced apart so easily, with the most basic elements stinging a man who'd built up walls and strength for more than twenty years? Had Yuuri not been enough? Was peace simply a longing for people like them? He glared at the darkening sky and shouted, "VIKTOOOR!"

"Yes?"

Yuri nearly jumped out of his skin, whirling to face the man seemingly calmly seated on the bench.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Viktor?!"

"A better question is why are you shouting my name to the wind, yes?"

His voice was light as a layer of froth in a glass of champagne. It was the nightclub all over again. Yuri reddened with boiling rage. "Maybe because I thought you were abandoning your own wedding party?!"

Viktor looked at him quizzically, white-gloved hands relaxedly resting on crossed knees. "And why would I be doing that?"

"I-" Yuri tried, but he choked on the words. Why? Where could he begin? Because he can tell this kind of public permanence is nerve-racking? Because there's some critical people that aren't here? Because he knows there are certain parts of him that are still tender, that still have the scars of maimed confidence and dark bruises of stomped-on ribs?

"I - you left your own wedding party for over twenty minutes and nobody knew where you went! Who does that shit?"

Viktor smiled wistfully and looked at the sky.

"I just needed a second to myself."

"To yourself? On your fucking bachelor's night?"

"Yes."

Yuri fumed. This wasn't supposed to be happening. Viktor wasn't supposed to be sitting on this bench alone, facing west, gaze fixed on an airport in the distance that led to a land with a premature sheet of frost. He was supposed to be here, after all this time, this work, this strife, to finally be with someone he deserved: and that wasn't just Yuuri.

"You're an idiot."

Viktor chuckled. "Well, you can think that if you wish, Yura. You wouldn't really understand, though."

Boil. Burst. "What the fuck do you think you're saying? You think I don't get what you're thinking? After all this fucking time, you think I don't know what you've gone through? What _I've_ gone through?"

Viktor looked at him with surprise, as though he never quite realized how intertwined their lives were. Yuri ran a frustrated hand through his braided hair. He regarded Viktor's face: open with surprise, but guarded with the possibility that someone would read him, and see. It was like the bathroom, all those years ago: _run now, you're safe if they don't know._ Guard yourself. Conceal who you are. How dare he go back in time!

"You're a fucking moron. I can't believe you're still like this after all these years."

Because if he's going back, then how is Yuri supposed to go forward?

Yurio's disappointment with Viktor is rooted in his extensive history with him. He'd expected more.

* * *

At age eight, Yuri Plisetsky began training under Yakov to compete in novice grade competitions. Yakov had spotted him at a public rink with his grandfather, skating in circles around him as though trying to weave joy with little feet as dexterous as slender fingers knotted in silken thread.

As soon as Yakov approached, the bright smile on the boy's face dissipated into a sour frown. Yakov asked the grandfather questions and requested he instruct Yuri.

"I believe I can make him win, if that's what he wants."

Grandpa said they'd have to take it up with Yuri's mother, though Yuri scoffed at that and claimed she was irrelevant. The pair researched Yakov - his records, his home rink, and his students - to make certain he was the real deal. That's when they stumbled upon Viktor Nikiforov, once a gold medalist in the junior Grand Prix Final, twice a gold medalist in the Senior Grand Prix Final, and twice a gold medalist of the World Championship. They watched his programs together, and sneaking a tentative glance at his Grandfather's face, Yuri discovered that something about Viktor's choreography delighted him.

Yuri decided for himself that he would train under Yakov and make sure Grandpa always had a reason to smile. He wanted to be the one weaving delight onto his grandfather's face the way only blades on ice could.

He and his grandfather would leisurely stroll to the rink local to St Petersburg, where Yuri would train as Grandpa observed from the bleachers, always a warm presence in Yuri's life.

When Yuri attempted his first double flip, just to tumble onto his stomach with a sharp "oof", Yuri glanced at the bleachers and feared he'd be met with a disapproving frown. Rather, his grandfather wasn't looking at him at all.

"Keep your hips locked! Again!"

He rose and gained momentum again. He pushed into the jump, and with a whip of his hips, took the fall on his knees.

"Again!"

He felt no reassuring eyes on him, but picked himself up just to fall again.

"Again!"

Yuri's hands flew up in frustration. Yakov seemed to sense his temper getting the best of him, and told him to take a five minute break. Yakov skated to the other side of the rink, where Yuri spotted the silver haired figure entering the rink. Yuri sprinted past him, shoulder grazing the champion's hip as tears sprung into his eyes.

He tore his skates off and bolted to his grandpa.

"Oh, Yuratchka! What's wrong?"

"You stopped watching!

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to put too much pressure on you."

"Everyone pays attention to Viktor! Nobody cares what I'm doing!"

Grandpa scooped him up despite his bad back and walked him out of the rink.

"That's not true. I looked away because I thought I was making you nervous. And Yakov wouldn't have recruited you if he only cared about Viktor, no?"

Yuri thought about that, his 8 year old brain erratic and illogical. He supposed Grandpa was right, as he usually was.

"I need you to keep watching me."

He pulled him close and whispered, "Of course."

* * *

Not all promises can be kept, so when Yuri's third competition was hosted in Moscow, his grandfather had to disappoint him.

"Yuratchka, I'm going to have to stay in St Petersburg for your competition. The doctors say I shouldn't exert myself by traveling."

Yuri's cheeks puffed and pinked. "You said you'd watch me."

Grandpa, always a step ahead, pulled out his laptop. "I will, since it'll be livestreamed. Don't worry, Yakov agreed to share a suite with you, so if anything goes wrong, just use his phone to call me."

But Yakov wasn't his grandfather. He was his coach. So when the European championships took place in Moscow that year as well, a few senior skaters ended up needing Yakov's attention just as much as Yuri did.

Yuri set his suitcase on his bed and regarded the shadows in the closet, dancing with the setting sun and snowflakes.

 _It's fine. Yakov is right next door_.

He turned on the lights and fumbled into his sweatpants, hurrying to the door so he could borrow Yakov's phone to call Grandpa.

 _Wait… дедушка said knock first._

He tugged at his shirt hem nervously, and raised a fist to knock. The door tumbled from beneath it, and Yakov stood above him.

"Oh, Yuri," he said, as though not expecting him. Yuri shrank back, uncharacteristically anxious without his grandfather nearby. Peering around Yakov, Yuri found Georgi seated on Yakov's bed with his head in his hands, knee bouncing. Yakov's fingers touched his knotted brow with supreme frustration. "I'm sorry to do this, but I need to head to the rink with Georgi. He's very concerned about his quad toe loop."

Yuri's mouth went dry. No Grandpa? No Yakov? And now he would be alone for...how long?

"Don't be afraid. I'll be back soon. Just... stay in the room and keep the light on."

When the door shut, Yuri sat on the floor and twitched. He found he feared turning away from it, in case the shadows had moved since he last saw them or someone used his visual inattentiveness to break in.

It grew dark, and Yuri was sweating. Yakov certainly forgot about him, and the crackling sound against the window was certainly someone trying to break in. His vision blurred with fearful tears as the shadows creeped around him and the light flickered.

Yuri was never one to sit and cower. He took a puff of air and decided to take matters into his own hands.

In one swift frenzy, Yuri bolted from the room, slamming the door behind him. He tore through the hallway, down the steps, and into the lobby. He would find Yakov, and he'd scare the murderers and shadows away.

Yuri thundered toward the hotel exit, white-eyed and heavy footed. He was about to blindly storm into the freezing dark of night in an unfamiliar city when a light voice called and lifted him from his fear-blinded panic.

"I get restless before competitions, too."

Yuri whirled around to see the man seated in a gold-rimmed chair, legs crossed, and arm propped on the table with a cup of warm tea in hand. He wore a generous smile and a trench coat that was neatly draped over an empty chair to his left. Viktor Nikiforov.

Yuri stood still, relieved to no longer be stuck in solitude but still remembering his mission. He looked at the door, so close and accessible.

"You're rooming with Yakov, yes?" Viktor asked. Yuri frowned at him, his vision still blurry but clearly missing this glow that Viktor was supposed to give off. "I've been wondering where he's been. Do you happen to know?"

Yuri didn't really care to answer, but didn't fancy the shadows chasing him again, either. "He went to the rink with Georgi."

"Ah," Viktor said, as he leaned in to rest his chin on his fine, intertwined fingers. "I suppose you're going out to fetch him?"

Yuri didn't have time for this. He nodded curtly.

"Well, that's a relief. I have to discuss something with him before the European Championships tomorrow," Viktor said, a clever lift in his brow. "But before you go, it's rather chilly out, and you seemed to have forgotten your shoes and coat. Why don't we share a warm beverage first?"

Yuri looked down at himself, seeing his spindly arms, bare and pink, and his socked toes wiggling against the floor. Heat prickled across his skin: this hotel was upscale.

He took a tentative step toward Viktor. It couldn't harm to warm up before he left, right? And anyway, the monsters were afraid of adults like Viktor.

Viktor beckoned with a welcoming arm and patted the empty seat. Yuri shuffled into it and glared at the man beside him. He was young and handsome, just like in the magazines. But beneath his eyes were grey crescent moons, and there were cracks in his smile.

"Coffee?" Viktor asked, and Yuri made a valiant attempt at not crinkling his nose with disgust.

"Uh, yeah. Yay."

Viktor seemed amused for some reason. "To tell you the truth, I don't care for coffee; I'm more of a hot chocolate person. But you should get what you like."

Yuri sat straighter. "I like both," he fibbed, "but since you mention it, I'll have hot chocolate."

The amusement on Viktor's face bubbled and burst in one smooth laugh. "Alright, then," he chuckled as he ordered the drink for Yuri. The waiter hurried back with the order, and Viktor requested he put some marshmallows and whipped cream in it. Yuri blushed, hyper-aware of how his toes didn't reach the carpet and his elbows barely propped on the table.

"I hope it's not too sweet for you; I'm just ordering it how I like it."

Yuri nodded, forgetting about his toes and elbows. He sipped it, and could've melted. He felt Viktor's attentive eyes on him. Yuri looked up at him with the intention of frowning, but met eyes that looked at him only with warm fondness. Despite himself, Yuri felt he should say something.

"It's good."

Viktor grinned and returned to his tea. "I thought so."

The hot chocolate settled in Yuri's stomach like a warm, soft quilt. He relaxed as the kidnappers faded and his mind grew weary with passing time.

Soon 9pm rolled by, and Yuri struggled to keep his eyes open.

Viktor placed his room key on the table and gave a yawn. Yuri wondered if it was fake, but didn't ask.

"I'm kind of sleepy. You?" Viktor asked.

"Yeah." Yuri reached into his pocket to place his own key on the table, when he remembered; he ran out so quickly he didn't bring one.

He had no room, and soon all the lights would go out and he'd be alone with the shadows and murderers. He'd have to sleep out in the open, and surely would get kidnapped. Tears welled in his eyes as he struggled to save face in front of Viktor. He wished his дедушка was here.

He pinked to his ears as Viktor regarded his fumbling hands in his empty pocket. Yuri pretended to scratch his leg, and Viktor seemed to fall for it.

"You know," Viktor said, looking wistfully at Yuri, "I'm kind of jealous Yakov decided to room with you. I'm so lonely in my room."

Yuri saw his chance and took it before it was too late. "I'm pretty bored in my room alone… maybe I could keep you company?"

Viktor's eyes seemed to gleam with invitation and tenderness. Yuri looked into them, as though seeing him for the first time. He memorized the ice blue and the sweep of his hair, the way his smile was genuine but there was a silent ache beneath it. He memorized the creases next to his welcoming eyes and the circles beneath them. He memorized the white of his teeth as his mouth curved into a smile, and how his voice was generous and cocky at the same time.

"Excellent idea."

He wasn't perfect, but he was admirable all the same.

* * *

At a little past midnight, an aggressive pounding on the door awoke Yuri from his peaceful state beneath Viktor's cozy comforter.

 _"Viktor, open up! I can't find Yura!"_

A silhouette on the couch surged awake and rushed to the door, but quietly opened it and hushed the form on its other side.

"Yakov, relax, he's in here sleeping."

"What the hell, I was worried sick and you're messing around -"

"I think you spooked him when you left him alone, Yakov."

Yakov seemed to pause. Yuri thought he'd be angry with him, and hid deeper in Viktor's covers. He felt safer with the smell of overpriced cologne enveloping him.

"I've never been good with kids, Vitya." Yakov sighed, and Yuri could see him rubbing his forehead. Viktor chuckled good-naturedly.

"I know."

"I shouldn't even be coaching someone this young. I heard he almost ran away."

Yuri shut his eyes tightly. He was going to lose his coach.

"Who told you that?" Viktor's reply was easy and light. "He came down to share a hot chocolate with me. You know kids: always wanting sugar and my autograph."

Yakov nodded. "I suppose. You need your rest for the competition, Vitya. Wake him up and I'll take him off your hands."

Yuri peeked out from beneath the blankets, and met Viktor's ice blue eyes, reflecting the light from the hallway. He winked.

"It's quite alright, Yakov; he's on the couch so I'll sleep just fine."

Yuri took that as a cue to hide again, so when Yakov skimmed the room it would appear that nobody occupied Viktor's bed.

"Alright. Sleep well, Viktor."

When the door shut and Viktor regarded him from the couch again, Yuri returned the wink and Viktor laughed out loud.

* * *

It was a Thursday morning, and Yakov was barely paying any attention to Yuri. He'd just returned the night before from a senior qualifying competition in France, and fatigue seemed to eat at him with an intensity Yuri'd never seen before. Yuri nailed all of his jumps, but Yakov kept looking at the door with anticipation. Georgi and another senior skater were gossiping just outside of the rink, taking a suspicious amount of time lacing up their skates as they spoke intently. Mila kept skating by them, "warming up thoroughly," she said, and Yuri knew it was adult stuff.

Yakov rubbed at his knotted brow, and waved a hand at Yuri. He called Mila onto the rink, her act exposed easily, and helped her repair her triple flip.

Yuri had always been the better sleuth, and by the look on Mila's face, he could tell this was juicy.

Georgi and his partner entered the rink, and Yuri fell smoothly into step behind them, listening intently.

"-and he left before Yakov could say anything. He must've been so humiliated."

"How did he not realize Yakov was coming home that night?"

"I dunno, he hasn't gone to a qualifying competition in a while… but Yakov hasn't seen him since, and you know he could never go to his parents house…"

"Definitely not, but it's sad Viktor assumed Yakov would kick him out, too."

"Was the boyfriend hot, at least?"

"Not a boyfriend, but supposedly. Just make sure this stays a secret, for obvious reasons."

Yuri stopped listening with acute discomfort, though whether it was due to the new information about Viktor itself or its disturbing resonance with Yuri, at the time, Yuri was not sure.

All conversation halted with the click of a door. The skaters stopped to watch the slim form pull on his skates, lacing them with slow, straining fingers. He kept his head low with shame as he entered the rink, uncharacteristically fearful of the spotlight he, the world champion, always seemed to absorb like a parched sponge.

Viktor chanced a glance at his rink-mates, and with the confirmation that they were all regarding him with knowing, curious eyes, his gaze returned to his feet.

Nobody moved. Yuri's heart pounded with anticipation. This was a new, unfamiliar side of Viktor that appeared gnawed away with expectations. Yuri didn't feel his usual driving admiration jealousy - rather, he felt an ache that begged the world to please, forgive this man.

Blades glide across ice. Yuri watches them shave it as Yakov halts before his favorite student. Viktor flinches.

A breath. Yakov's arms envelop Viktor. A beat. He pulls away, and maintains a steady gaze.

"Today we will continue working on your free program. Take a few laps while I finish with Yuri."

Viktor nodded, stunned with relief. Yuri watched him continue on with an incredible ploy of normalcy, but a hidden strength under the scrutinizing eyes that would always be watching.

* * *

A few years passed and another national competition crept into Moscow. Yuri was accustomed by then to attending his competitions relatively alone compared to the other skaters of his age group. His grandfather simply couldn't handle the haul across the vast expanse that was Russia.

At the ripe age of 12, Yuri ceased expecting him to. He hugged his grandfather, enjoying his forgiving warmth and set out with Yakov, already missing him. Age was a frightening thing for the young: an infectious dust that settled along the home that built you, slowly decaying it. Yuri watched it crumble to the ground, powerlessly.

He roomed alone, though his room was between Viktor's and Yakov's. He was old enough to stop fearing the monsters under the bed, but kidnappers still bothered him a little. It was nice having Viktor nearby to assure him that if he hid deep enough beneath his blankets, nobody would find him: that Yakov would drop by in the morning and make sure he had everything he needed for the competition. He awoke at 6am, as the novice-grade competition went first, then the juniors, and finally the seniors. Viktor came along early, it being too much of a hassle to rent a second car later in the day.

Yuri skated around the rink once, sensing Yakov's watchful eyes on him from the stands. Yuri had stopped having performance anxiety early on, but his coach and many of the senior skaters still made sure to fuss over him anyway.

He did a triple toe loop just to intimidate some of the other skaters. It seemed to work, so he returned to the stands with a cocky smirk. Yakov scolded him, exasperated already.

"Someone get this man some coffee," Viktor joked. Yuri pretended to be unamused. He was a preteen, not some little kid.

Viktor just smiled to himself. "Oh I forgot, you don't think I'm funny anymore."

Truthfully, Yuri didn't find anything amusing anymore.

Yakov was somehow still complaining, but Yuri didn't really listen to him. He stood, and started to walk away.

"Are you even listening to me?!"

"I need to take a piss, Jesus."

Yakov touched his knotted brow. "Vitya, go with him."

"I can piss by myself, old man!"

Viktor laughed. "He's right, Yakov. He's old enough to remember to wash his hands."

Yuri bristled. Viktor sucked sometimes.

"I can't have him getting lost!"

"I'm just joking, Yakov. Relax."

Viktor stood and pretended to walk with Yuri instead of leading him to the restroom. Yuri didn't actually know where it would be.

"I know Yakov can be overbearing," Viktor said. "But I've known him for a long time. He seems like he truly wants you to succeed, Yura."

He dragged Yuri into some sketchy cafe and picked up a black coffee for Yakov. He paid almost entirely with loose change, and winked at the barista. She swooned. Yuri internally vomited.

"He's our coach, which means he sometimes has to act like a father. In your case, most of the time."

Viktor slung his arms playfully around Yuri's shoulders. "You can talk to Yakov about almost anything. You don't always have to do things all alone. And you can talk to me, too."

Yuri angsted, furious that Viktor would imply he was immature and needy, or didn't have enough guidance from his grandfather. He was so over middleschool, having all the boys distract him in class with their deep brown eyes and stupidity. He'd convinced Grandpa to get him a tutor so he could skate for real. There was nothing wrong with him when he was at home, away from people, with his grandfather. How foolish of Viktor to believe Yuri would ever need anyone outside of that.

Yuri shoved Viktor's arm off him like a dirty sheet. "I'm not a little kid! Yakov's not my father, and neither are you!"

Viktor's pleasant expression remained, as though accustomed to those he loved screaming at him with rejection. He shrugged, and shoved Yuri jovially, dismissing his preteen moods.

"Alright, then, big guy," he opened the bathroom door for Yuri, who flooded in like a hurricane. "Go take your piss, as you so eloquently put it."

Yuri moved to the urinal, furious for no reason at all. It was becoming a part of him. The bathroom was empty when they entered, probably due to the early hour, but some grizzy men wandered in from the bar next door, smelling of stale vodka and pheromones.

Yuri found he could no longer use the bathroom when one of the three men unzipped his fly in the urinal right beside him. He seemed to be peering down at Yuri over the divider, as though sizing him up, but Yuri was too afraid to check. He shrank with a familiar discomfort.

He was about to move away to wash his hands when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Yuri flinched, startled, until he saw the red and white of the jacket, and realized it was Viktor.

"Come on, Yura, time to head back."

His voice was lacked its usual playful intonation, instead sounding cautious - nervous, even - and sirens sounded in Yuri's head.

"Is that the kind of shit you fags are into these days?" said a grizzly man by the sinks, thick arms crossed and scowl in place. "Disgusting."

Viktor's arm snaked around Yuri's shoulders, pulling him in. Yuri suddenly became aware of how slim Viktor was, and how slight his own twelve-year-old frame was. Viktor may have the length of an average Russian, but these men - and it seemed that, in his business by the urinal, Yuri had failed to notice that these three were not minding their own business at all, and in fact had gathered in a triad around the two skaters, blocking the exit - were easily over six-feet tall, and their frames were anything but lean. These were men, and they didn't strike Yuri as particularly friendly.

One of them grunted in agreement. Yuri chanced a glance at Viktor, whose mouth was tight and shoulders were stiff. He lowered his head in discrete resignation, and Yuri's chest tightened.

"Excuse us," Viktor almost whispered, but made no move to the door. It was almost like an apology instead of a request for the burly man to step aside, to please, just let us go.

"I don't really think there are any excuses for your sick lifestyle," said the one by the toilets, who zipped his fly but didn't wash his hands.

Yuri seethed. "What the fuck do you -" Viktor's hand shot up to muffle the remainder of his sentence.

"Aw, why are you shushing him? He's just a little _curious_ ," the door occupant mocked, rubbing a hand over his crotch in emphasis. "The little punk probably just wants to know how it is everybody knows Viktor Nikiforov is a cocksucker."

"Read the news, kid," another remarked, circling. "Unless you want dick yourself."

"He doesn't," Viktor interjected, voice tight and quick.

"Oh? And I suppose you know that for sure, since you've toyed with him to figure it out for yourself?"

They guffawed. The cross-armed one by the sink kicked off the wall and sauntered to Viktor, grabbing him by the chin. "I take it you enjoy that kind of sick shit."

Viktor kept his eyes steadily turned down. "I would never."

The man turned his eyes on Yuri, who flinched into Viktor. "And how about you? Would you like it if a man dwiddled your little dick?"

"He doesn't even know what that means," Viktor strained. Yuri shrunk further back, feeling like a little boy in a hotel with violent ghosts in the closet.

"But you do. You know _exactly_ what kind of gross shit I'm talking about."

It wasn't a question. He looked Viktor dead in the eye, face hard with hate and disgust.

"Yes."

The door man chuckled and spat at Viktor's Armani shoes, narrowly missing them. With frustrated anger, he thrust off the doorframe and grabbed Viktor by the hair. Every muscle in Yuri's body tightened as the man behind them cracked his knuckles. The air went still and Yuri didn't breathe as the man leaned into Viktor's face and said, "We all know you take it up the ass. How dare you pretend to represent our great country. You're a disgrace to men and Russia itself."

There is a silent moment when Yuri thinks it's over, but suddenly he's on the ground and his elbows are aching and he sees red on the wall because Viktor's flailing between the three men and one's got his arms pinned because _oh god ice skaters weren't built for fighting_ and the other one's fists are colliding with his ribs and the other one is shouting, veins protruding from his neck like an overfilled tube of thick liquid his conscious won't let him release in the night and yet _Viktor is the one apologizing_ but Yuri's shaking too much to move even though he's never been one to sit and cower but he's paralyzed with fear and his stomach turns -

Viktor's icy gaze meets his. It seems to beg him to _move, get out of here - you're safe so long as they don't know._ Another hard hit, and Viktor spits blood. They drop him in it - his designer pants, covered in blood - and give him a swift kick to the chest. His face is a constellation of bruises and his body is mangled with red stains - red, the proud color of Russia.

"You people don't have the right to call yourselves athletes."

With that, they turned to the door and left as though nothing had happened at all. And, from the brief moment that the bathroom door was open as they exited, making the soft shuffle of activity outside discernable to Yuri, it became apparent that maybe nothing did happen: anyone could've heard it, and nobody stopped it.

Yuri's eyes drifted to Viktor, whose clothes were marred with hot coffee and blood. He regarded the cup intended for Yakov, long forgotten in the corner, top scattered and liquid brown and steaming on the floor. _"He's like a father. You can tell us anything."_ Yet… _"You know he could never go to his parents."_ _Get out of here, you're safe so long as they don't know._ Blood on the walls, shouting, falling. Why couldn't people just leave this man alone?

Viktor groaned. He rolled from his side, propping on his elbow to a seated position. His brows were knit with pain as he dragged himself through his own blood to lean against the wall. A hand scrubbed over his face, smearing the blood. When he took it away, he regarded his palm with serene contemplation. Yuri could've heard a pin drop.

"...Viktor?"

The man blinked rapidly, as though clearing away a colorful but blinding fog in his vision. When it cleared, his eyes would meet the disappointing reality of a white and red jacket splattered with his own dull blood. "Yura."

* * *

With enough advil, headaches from Yakov's stressed doting and panicking, and layers of makeup that would make a drag queen look underdressed, Viktor managed to narrowly pull gold in the national competition. Viktor didn't complain about his aching back, but merely bitched about how unremarkable his performance had been. Yuri rolled his eyes, sick with envy and churning terror. Viktor was remarkable.

Yakov cleaned Viktor's open wounds of the clogging makeup, wincing while the injured man stayed perfectly still - perfectly deceptively _fine_ \- iced his sore muscles and left for a well deserved rest. The stress levels in that man were deadly.

Yuri lurked in Viktor's room after Yakov left, half expecting Yakov to storm back in and give him one of those long lectures about safety, about something other than what happened, something that would give some better reason for three strange men hurting a national champion for reasons that Yuri wanted to censor from his mind, to hide back into the closet with the other scary demons. He didn't. He did nothing.

Viktor looked at him, ice pack drawn to his blue temple. "I'm sorry you had to see that. I wish I could've protected you better."

He studied Yuri for another beat, the puffy-cheeked anger that rested on his cherubic face. Yuri clearly had something to say. "What?"

"Well.. why can't we call the cops to kick the shit out of those assholes?" Naturally, Yuri's response to fear was anger.

Viktor let out a masking chuckle. "Oh, Yura, you know so little about the world. Let's just say that it would be worse for me to publicise what happened than it would be for them."

"What are you talking about?" Yuri raged. He was twelve - he knew how laws worked. Viktor was clearly an idiot if he thought people got away with beating up skaters in public bathrooms. "Of course they'd get in trouble! I'd have kicked their asses myself if you hadn't shoved me out of the way last minute!"

Viktor looked at him, eyes apologetic again. How could someone completely innocent look so guilty all the time? How could a man who just suffered a beating look like he felt sorry for unscathed and combative Yuri?

"You're too young to understand. Let's just say that because of their reasons for targeting me, the country we live in, and because of who I am - what I am - there aren't any people that would exactly be enthusiastic about jumping to my defense."

Yuri felt his eyes burn and cheeks swell, and turned away before Viktor could see.

"And what exactly are you that's so bad?"

Viktor must've shifted on the bed to face away, the sheets rustling and his voice sounding muffled by the sheets. "I think you know what."

* * *

They said you couldn't know Viktor Nikiforov without admiring him at least a little bit.

Although this was true for him, Yuri also knew that Viktor was human, and like all humans, had his vices. Yuri knew Viktor because he'd grown up beside him - because Yuri was painfully similar to him. More importantly, however, Yuri knew Viktor was human because he'd seen him at his lowest.

Viktor drank too much. At age 13, Yuri had bore witness to it on early mornings at the rink, when Viktor would show up late with a headache and clothes he'd never seen before. On Friday evenings when Yuri would text Viktor about a particular jump seeking advice and would receive a jumble of English and Russian letters as an unhelpful and frustrating response.

But, while Yuri was well aware of Viktor's habits from rink rumors, observation, and late-night texts, he'd never been so disturbed by it until he'd seen it first hand.

Yuri had early practices on Saturdays to make time for his tutoring in the afternoon. This, unfortunately, meant that he was often forced to wake at ungodly hours to arrive at the Saint Petersburg rink by 6am. When he arrived, he was normally met with the sight of a tired, grumpy Yakov, two tall coffees in hand and yawning.

That was not the sight Yuri was met with that morning. Rather, the moment he could distinguish the shape of the grey rink from the foggy backdrop of clouds and rainwater, he recognized Yakov's car and the frustrated form inside it, seemingly yelling on a cellphone while rubbing his glistening bald head.

"Yakov?" Yuri carelessly rapped his knuckles on the window and shifted his skating bag onto his other shoulder to maintain his desired aura of bitchiness. Yakov started at the action but didn't hang up, flicking his wrist at the passenger seat. Yuri threw his shit in the back and slumped into the seat, wondering what Yakov's divorce attorney got wrong this time.

 _"Do you have any idea what time it is?! It's six in the morning and you're still out! I will not tolerate this behavior any longer, do you hear me V-"_

The line went dead and Yakov slammed his cellphone in the cupholder. Yuri grit his teeth at the noise.

"The fuck?"

Yakov started the car. "I called you _three_ times, Yuri, and because you _so clearly_ had your music up too loud to hear me -"

He tore Yuri's headphones from his ears,

"I had to _wait_ here for a half hour because you can't be in the rink alone, and now I'm forced to take you on my childcare errands!"

Yuri wrinkled his nose. "Childcare? Please tell me you and Lilia didn't get back together..."

Yakov tore out of the lot. Yuri had never felt less safe in his life than when Yakov was driving stick while purple with rage.

"Wha -" Yakov spluttered, "of course not! It's Viktor, the selfish fool."

"Great, what now?" Yuri kicked the dashboard. Yakov swatted his feet off.

"You know what. He called me at 5am drunk off his ass, so I'm gonna go haul it back home."

"And why do _I_ have to lose _my_ practice time to deal with it?"

Yakov's lips were drawn into one tight line. He pulled into a spot right in front of what appeared to be a still-active nightclub. "Because you didn't get my message not to come in today."

Yuri propped his feet on the dashboard again and glared out the window. "This is such a waste of time."

Yakov put the car in park and pocketed the keys. "Stay in the car, Yuri. I'll have your head if you don't."

The door slammed shut and Yuri kicked the dashboard again as Yakov's figure retreated into the nightclub. Only a complete idiot like Viktor would be drunk enough to still be at one of those disgusting places the next damn morning. And anyway, it wasn't like Yakov had to pick him up in the first place - Yuri had gotten drunk texts from him, too, and they were all the usual _I just got a phone number!_ and then later, _i miss youuuu why do they always leave :((((._ Yuri scoffed. Viktor only gave a shit about that when he was drunk, anyway.

Twenty minutes later, and Yuri decided he was sick of always being second on Yakov's agenda. He took matters into his own hands, tearing his way out of the car and into the club.

Although the sun was starting to rise outside, there were no windows in the club but one, which had the blinds drawn shut. There were somehow still people there, mostly ones with half-shaven heads moaning on the floor with people with metal sticking out every orafice of their faces. However, it was clear that those few people were simply what remained of the night before: the lonely ones who received no offers of assisted transport, came alone, or had nowhere to return to.

...and then there was Viktor, slumped over multiple shot glasses at the bar.

Somehow, the backdrop made the reality of Viktor's situation all the more poignant. Even though Yuri knew Viktor drank too much. Even though he knew Viktor lived alone.

"But he _left,_ Yakov-"

"Which is all the more reason for you to leave!"

"-and I don't know where he _went_ , so I gotta _wait_ in case he comes _back_!"

"He's not _coming back,_ Viktor, and you know it. Give up, it's time to go home!"

Viktor's jaw snapped shut, and he struggled to sit up, blinking blearily up at Yakov. Yuri recognized the hurt.

Yakov sighed and ran a hand along his bald spot, probably realizing that _this is where his hair went_. Yuri who stood there uselessly, heart sinking when Viktor's glazed eyes met his.

. _..shit..._

"Yuraaa!" Viktor slurred, pink eyed and rosy cheeked.

If Yakov could've been redder, he would've been when he whipped around to see Yuri.

"Yuri! I told you to wait in the car!"

"Yeah, well, the car was getting stuffy and you clearly have no control over the situation in here."

"Yuraaa! I missed you, give me a hug!"

Viktor practically collapsed into Yuri's arms, falling on his knees and slumping on him.

"Uh, hi, Viktor. Can you get up?"

"Nope!"

"For fucks sake," Yakov grabbed Viktor by the shoulders, yanking him up. "You're wasted and it's already six am. It's time to go now."

Viktor leaned on him, though not by choice. When Yuri finally gathered the nerve to disregard the disheveled clothing, the inconvenience, the bruises littering his neck, and really look Viktor in the eye, he saw cerulean clouds and deep shades of agony.

"But there's nothing there for me…"

Yuri winced and turned away. It suddenly ached to be in this place, and he wanted out.

A woman with dragons and track marks dancing up her forearms cackled from the floor. "There's nothing for you here, either," she rasped.

Viktor looked at her, almost like he was understanding something really important for the first time.

"C'mon, Viktor…" Yuri muttered. His voice hurt. Everything hurt.

"...okay."

They each took an arm, and dragged him out of the place.

"See you tomorrow…" the woman said, and Yuri hated that he believed her.

Yuri sat with Viktor in the back seat to make sure he wouldn't remove his seatbelt or try to jump out of the moving car. Viktor's eyes were barely open at all, and he didn't bother holding his head up. Yet Yuri somehow couldn't keep himself from taking in every detail of him: the smattering of bruises on his flushed neck and chest, revealed because of the hastily-buttoned shirt that somehow lost one along the way; the distant look in his eyes; the way his brows drew together in flashes of nausea or misery. Yuri glanced in the rear-view mirror, and caught Yakov's eye. They stayed mostly silent, until Yakov let out an exhausted, bitter sigh.

"I can barely recognize you anymore, Vitya."

Viktor gave a lopsided, wry grin.

"Whattaya mean, 'anymore'? I wasn't even me, before…"

Yuri stayed silent so he didn't sob.

* * *

It's only understandable, then, that when Viktor randomly disappeared from Yuri's life one day to move to Japan on one of his love-struck whims that everyone in the St Petersburg rink would doubt the man in question and the reciprocity of his "unconditional love." Yuri had been at the banquet. He knew the other Yuuri was drunk off his ass and completely unaware of how hard he was hitting on Viktor, of how he attracted him like a honey bee to nectar. Viktor was always impulsive, and always desperately lonely, but even by his standards this was a bold move: to give up his career for a mediocre boy he talked to once.

Everyone knew that, in around a month's time, Viktor would be back, drunker and less alive. Head low. As frozen as the ice under his blades.

Yuri flew out as soon as he knew. How dare Viktor leave him, the only person that had stuck by his side, behind? How dare he repeat the same damn mistakes again? How dare he still not accept the inevitability of their loneliness?

(How dare he leave Yuri to find his way on his own)

...and Yuri left as soon as he saw. He sat on the plane alone, uncertain, fearful, longing, abandoned, and teary-eyed with hope.

 _Please, just let me be wrong._

* * *

Yuri was white-knuckled, clutching his phone in the locker room with the force of nerves so bundled he feared he'd never untangle them. Yakov was probably looking for him - his free-skate was surely coming up - but he found that he was afraid to skate at all.

 _Yuri Plisetsky - gay icon of Russia?_

It was probably the costume, or his skinniness, or his long hair, or maybe the fact that his fucking program was about "unconditional love" - goddammit Viktor - but it didn't really matter what it was, right? Now people were thinking about it, and now people would watch him closely, and now he'd always wear a target on his back.

Applause. It was almost his turn

His eyes burned with hot tears.

He couldn't do this.

"Oh, Yura! What're you doing in here, isn't it your turn soo-"

Yuri jumped, even the most expected intrusion in what was supposed to be a shared space to stretch startling his already anxious body, and his phone leapt from his hands, sliding beneath the lockers. Yuri scrambled to find it, but Viktor was too quick, too damn _helpful._

As soon as he saw the screen, he frowned.

"Yura, what're you doing reading news quips about yourself right before your program? You know Yakov would have your head."

Yuri clenches his knees. "Gimme my damn phone."

"Nope. I'll give it back to you after your program."

He tried to grab it without looking Viktor in the eyes, too uncomfortable and nervous to bear it but as soon as he reached up, by virtue of him being much taller than Yuri, Viktor grabbed his wrist and held his chin to get a good look at him.

"What the hell?!"

"...you're afraid."

He yanked himself away. "Fuck you, of course I'm nervous, I'm about to skate in front of 15,000 people!"

"That's never bothered you before. It's the article."

Yuri stopped fighting and dropped onto the bench, head down. Viktor had nice shoes on. Spotless. No coffee or blood.

Viktor handed Yuri his locked phone. He sat beside him, and chanced putting a supposedly "soothing" hand on his back. He said something Yuri wasn't expecting.

"Is it really so bad, Yuri?"

His voice was almost amused, in a sad, quiet sort of way. Yuri looked at him. He wore a sweet, wistful smile.

"I'm... just not ready for this."

...because Yuri knew, but he wasn't ready for the world to.

Viktor nodded at him, took his hand. "I'm proud of you. Are you ready to skate, though?"

Yuri grimaced. He had to get up.

"But they'll see me."

Viktor laughed.

"I'll take care of it. I promise."

They stood, and Viktor, for once in his life, actually held true to his promise.

He kissed Yuuri on international television that day, and the media left Yuri alone. It seemed Viktor had healed. Yuri took his time climbing to meet him.

* * *

He'd had two beers and five shots, and was now stuck in the unbelievably uncomfortable position between the sweaty body in front of him and the clearly male one behind him that was probably the proper age to be in this club. The flashing lights and blaring music and movement of his loose body should've been enough to spin his head and make him forget what on earth brought him here, but rising panic was more than enough to remind him of his poor reasoning.

Yuri had never been asked to be friends before, had never had someone recognize the pain and strength that characterized him as a "soldier," but more importantly, had never felt the flutter of butterflies in his stomach whenever someone would say his name. So when Yuri texted Otabek to ask what he was doing in St Petersburg on a Friday night, and Otabek had told him about this club that rarely carded that he planned on going to with his friends, Yuri jumped on his opportunity to spend some time with him. Otabek had resisted, saying Yuri was too young and even if he had done such things before, he doubted that bouncers would let him in because he was too obviously underaged. Yuri eventually wore him down, though; he needed Otabek to know that he was the real deal, that he was edgy and grown up enough to hang out with him.

It had taken some time, but Otabek relented, giving him two beers so he wouldn't drink whatever sketchy shit they were serving at the club. Yuri drank them down quickly, surprised that he didn't choke on them - maybe Russians really were better at drinking? - and they made their way over. Otabek looked even more rugged under the guise of a bit of alcohol, and Yuri felt warm walking with him. He'd missed him so much over off season.

That was until they entered the club. The group had flanked Yuri, nervous that the bouncers would catch them this time.

The bouncer had raised a brow, as though to say, "really?", but rolled his eyes when Yuri simply cocked his own back. They got in, and laughed.

"Alright, let's all leave before 2am this time," Otabek proposed responsibly, but his friends were already drifting to the bar for shots. He sighed, then turned to Yuri.

"You know," his voice was smooth and clean, and Yuri sucked in air when he realized the occasion was just for him. A sultry, solo show. "You don't have to do this. I didn't club until I turned 17."

Yuri rolled his eyes. "Please. I'm a Russian, I've been drinking since I learned to walk."

Otabek shrugged, then lead him to the bar. "If you're sure. Just don't get too messed up, you're probably a lightweight."

Yuri hadn't listened. He didn't need to be looked after like some kid. He took five consecutive shots, and Otabek shook his head disapprovingly. He knew he had no power over Yuri, and Yuri grinned triumphantly until he realized how far he and his mind had wandered.

That was all he could remember. He didn't really notice when the club had gotten so crowded, or when this man had started grinding on him or when his heart had started thrumming with discomfort. Why did Otabek look so good by the bar? Why wasn't he impressed when Yuri banged back the alcohol? Why did he suddenly care so much about Otabek?

And, more importantly, why was he being lead through the crowd to a remote hallway?

The man, he supposed, looked vaguely attractive, in a scruffy sort of way. The purple light flickered against his jawline nicely, and his voice sounded low, although Yuri couldn't really rationalize it was calling him "babe." Or why his lips were on his neck, sucking. Or why his hand was drifting down his spine.

He found himself in the bathroom, door locked, bent over the toilet. He thought he might throw up, whether it was from the alcohol or the fact that the man's hands under his shirt made him feel so good and so disgusting and how badly he wanted Otabek to be there instead. Is that what he thought was gonna happen? He'd get drunk and finally get brave enough to tell Otabek how he made his heart flutter? That Otabek would see him as more than a friend as soon as he took a shot? That somehow going out with Otabek's friends would show him that he's worthy?

 _A hand pushing him away from the fists, a cry of go while you can… an I'm sorry you had to see that as though he'd never see it again if he hid well enough. Coffee and blood on the floor, eye contact and one word: Yura._

He threw up, and the body behind him backed up with a short "woah, you okay?" to which Yuri simply moaned.

"You feelin' okay? Want me to find your friends?"

Yuri shook his head furiously. No, don't let Otabek see this. He was so pitiful and dirty. He just wanted this handsy man to leave, to stop sucking on his neck and reminding him of how disgusting he was, of how he was stuck like this forever and would always have to hide from large men in bathrooms. He wanted to leave.

"I'll call them."

The man must've nodded, muttered something, and left. Yuri fumbled on his iphone, nauseous and fearful he might start crying at any moment. Who could he call? Grandpa was in Moscow, Yakov would surely skin him. Otabek couldn't know! He had so few friends, no parents really, nobody...

He held the phone up to his ear, the tears already streaming down his hot cheeks and sensing another wave of nausea once he realized what he'd almost done, and hoped he wouldn't get a dial tone.

 _"Yuraaaa I was just about to fall asleep! How dare you call a man at such an ungodly hour!"_

"Viktor…" Yuri choked across the static, teary eyed and too uncomfortable to leave his place near the toilet. His mind reeled and he feared standing would make him throw up again.

 _"...Yura?"_ the sheets ruffled in the background. _"What's wrong?"_

Yuri couldn't reply, too ashamed and too sick with his disease and alcohol.

"I messed up…" Yuri knew Viktor must've heard the slur in his voice.

 _"Where are you?"_

Yuri sniffled. "I can't remember…"

He heard a light go on, more shuffling, some soft English whispering.

 _"Yura, send me your location on your iphone. I'm gonna come get you."_

"Okay…"

He hung up nervously, miserably. He sent his location, hand buried in his mess of feminine blond locks. Viktor was there in just under twenty minutes, scooping him off the bathroom floor and draping his jacket over his shoulders. The jacket was dark and warm, like Otabek, and so of course Yuri wondered if this is what it'd feel like if Otabek were to hold him. He sat in the car, Viktor buckling his seat with a frustrated sigh, and never felt so alone.

* * *

Viktor, for all the shit Yuri put him through, asked no questions: just ran a frustrated, tired hand through his hair, and buckled Yuri's seatbelt. Yuri curled in the passenger seat and watched the sky bleed into a steady rain.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

He wasn't even looking at him. Rather, Viktor's eyes were steadily trained on the streets, which were mostly quiet but still busy with young people, unsheathed umbrellas and clanging bottles. He'd asked it like there wasn't one very simple answer that tied them together like barbed wire tied together bleeding soldiers: brave Russian men sent to the fronts to choke on infectious dust and lay on the bones of a nation they didn't know why they were defending. Fighting a pointless battle. They'd be worm's meat on the front, but they'd be worm's meat in the gulags just the same.

So of course Viktor knew the answer, because all of their problems seemed to trace back to the same issue, right? Thrumming headaches that Viktor said were "worth it" because of that number he got last night, the name he'd toss around for a day while he checked his notifications every two minutes just to give up on it entirely by the next morning. The call would never come. Viktor knew it. Yuri knew it. Everyone did, really. Drink it down again, Viktor, because maybe this time your phone will ring. Maybe this time it won't just be bruises on your neck, hands down your spine in a private hallway, maybe there'll be some lunch tomorrow and a conversation. Maybe, but actually never. Because even when you're brave enough to walk around with a target on your back, to take bathroom beatings so you don't have to hide anymore, of course you'd still spend Sunday nights alone. It never really goes away, the demon inside them, if you exorcise it or try to chase it away or accept it and become it, there are always gonna be lucky charmers that turn out to be devils in masks with cameras. Leave it to Yuri to think that he was different somehow: that Otabek was different somehow.

"Guess not," Viktor deduced. Yuri shut his eyes and hoped the demon would bleed out of him.

When Yuri opened his eyes again, the car was parked outside of Viktor's apartment, and Viktor was reaching into the passenger seat to grab him. Yuri groaned, pushing the man's hands away. He stumbled out of the car, and straight into Viktor's chest. He leaned on him all the way up the stairs.

He supposed this is what he should've expected: to stand outside of Viktor's apartment, watching him fumble with the keys, probably not used to having company going into his home. His home that by virtue of what he is, would be void of any company.

So of course when Viktor finally manages to wrench the door open, Yuri is far from expecting to see something so domestic - not the emptiness of a life Viktor didn't choose that he'd borne witness to time and time again, but rather, a young Japanese man clad in blue sweatpants, a white teeshirt and socks, hazy-eyed and grinding tea leaves in Viktor's kitchen.

Something like Yuuri Katsuki.

"Did you find him?" Upon the sight of Viktor, Yuuri had halted his task and hurried to the door. "-oh, Yurio, are you alright?"

Even knowing their eyes were trained on him, Yuri simply gawked at Yuuri. Yuuri, who was still in Viktor's house at 3am. Yuuri, who didn't leave as soon as he awoke. Yuuri, who is so warm and soft.

"Yura, please come sit. Yuuri has some herbal teas that might make you feel better."

(Yuuri, who Viktor had pursued blindly, who could've easily used him and left like everyone else.)

Viktor guided Yurio in with a gentle hand, shutting the front door with a soft click. He sat on the livingroom couch and Makkachan sat beside him, head resting on his lap like a warm cushion.

"Um, okay," Yuri slurred. Yuuri didn't comment, gesturing for Viktor to join him in the kitchen for a hushed conversation.

Yuri doesn't need to know what they're saying to understand the implication of it. The implication that they were having a discussion at 3am at all was enough to send Yuri's scatter-brain into a torrent of unanswered questions, namely, _what is going on?_

Yuuri returns, sliding a warm mug into Yuri's unsteady hands. He is... _smiling._ It's a soft, apologetic sort of smile. Viktor is standing behind him, arms uncrossed and so incredibly welcoming looking. But why is this significant? Why is it so damn confusing when Yuuri steps out of his space, and Viktor's arms lace around his waist so naturally, like this is supposed to be happening, like this is expected? Because Yuri remembers the last time he was here, and the flat was bare and cold and empty like how Russia and Viktor and anyone like him were supposed to be. Like how Yuri expected his life to be.

"Something wrong, Yura?"

Absently, Yuri realizes he's started to cry. A warm hand on his shoulder. A blanket encompases him.

"No...I'm jus'.. _.fuck you, don't look at me."_

...relieved.

* * *

Yuri wakes up early because something smells _amazing._ He feels pretty dried up, probably because he drank dehydrants and slept for only five hours, but maybe also because he was crying so much. He finds that it's not so bad, though, when he sits up and stretches his cramped limbs to find a glass of water and two advils on the table.

"Oh, Yura, you're up," Viktor comments. He's holding a plate of eggs and toast, and wearing nothing but a flannel and slacks.

"Really? Had no idea…" Yuri replies. He takes the plate, and the effect is instantaneous.

"Good, right?" Viktor sits beside him, coffee cup in hand. "Yuuri is an incredible cook."

Yuri eyes him. So, it was real then. Yuuri is… still there.

"Anyone's a better cook than you."

"Ouch."

Yuri feels a buzzing in his pocket, and immediately realizes he left Otabek without telling him where he was going. He rips the phone out, but Viktor chuckles and crosses his legs.

"Don't worry, Yura, Yuuri and I already called Otabek and told him you were safe."

The latest message reads, _ok, have him call me in the morning… sorry about that_

Yuri drops the phone in his lap and groans in absolute horror. Not only does Otabek now know he can't handle his alcohol, but now he must think he's a scared little kid that can't even walk home alone. This situation couldn't be any more humiliating…

"Yuuri told him I saw you there on snapchat and made you leave."

Yuri's attention snaps to Yuuri, who's back in the kitchen crushing leaves again. Maybe it's some sort of nervous thing?

"...so now all your friends are gonna think I'm some ancient, controlling father figure, if you don't mind," Viktor drones, only partly kidding.

Yuri nods. He's surprised Yuuri could understand him so well as to protect his fragile image. He watches him until their eyes meet, and ducks away.

"But regardless," Viktor is somehow still speaking, "you don't have to explain yourself. For being intoxicated, I mean, and being at a club. Just… are you okay?"

Yuri realizes how bad this must look, with him looking anywhere but at Viktor and his cheeks being stained from tears. And - oh God - his _neck._..

"I just… nothing really happened, Viktor."

He looks at his hands, realizing that Yuuri is still in the kitchen feigning business, giving them the privacy they need. How sensitive that man is.

"Is that why you were upset?"

Viktor's always been good at reading him, probably because they're so similar. He knows about Otabek. And he's mostly right: the right things happened with the wrong person, which made them the wrong things, and so nothing _really_ happened. Yuuri drops something in the kitchen, muttering a quick oops under his breath.

"Pretty much."

There's an uncomfortable silence, for a moment, before Viktor draws him into a half-hug. Yuri would normally resist such a move, but after all the shit he put him through the night before, he lets this one slide.

"So why did you only cry when you came here?"

Viktor pulls away and holds him at arm's length, and Yuri lets himself finally look Viktor in the eye. They're bright, sky-blue eyes, and hold such clarity that Yuri lets himself say the truth.

"I… thought you lived alone."

Water gathers in the blue, and Viktor is…. _Smiling._ Without cameras. Just to smile.

"Oh, Yuri... I no longer live alone, and I've never felt anything so real in my life."

He pulls him in again, and Yuri smells his fresh cologne and feels his damp hair tickle his cheeks. He finds that, as usual, he believes him.

"Don't be afraid anymore, Yuri. It'll be the best thing that ever happens to you."

* * *

Yuri returns home with shaking knees and an aching back. He fumbles with his keys, shaking as he gently inserts it into the hole with a grimace. His stomach turns as he enters, struggling to tear the key out of the hole before he can think about what he's done.

"I'm home!"

Grandpa waddles over, apron-clad and glowing. "Yuratchka! It's late, I was worried!"

Yuri chokes, hyper aware of his collarbone and inner thighs. "Uh, yeah, I needed a little more time to practice."

Grandpa places his arm around Yuri's shoulders, steadily sweeping him into the house. "You work yourself too hard, Yuratchka. Come now, I've made some боршт."

They sit at the table and Grandpa attempts to make conversation, but Yuri's illness claws at his throat and he gags on it.

Grandpa, terminally affectionate, knits his brows and sets down his spoon on the unstained wood of the table. "Is there something wrong?"

Yuri's fingers tremble, and he closes his legs, struggling to meet his grandfather's warm face: afraid it will disappear as quickly as a flame baptised with holy water.

He shuts his eyes to ward off the rising panic boiling in his stomach, picturing Yakov embracing Viktor's relieved form on the ice. It settles him slightly.

"Дедушка...if I was keeping something really important from you, but I knew you wouldn't like it, would you still want me to tell you?"

Yuri can't meet his eyes, but feels the unwavering gaze of concern anyway. He squirms under it.

"Well, of course. You know you can tell me anything."

He looks at his bowl, once clean and pure but now tainted with the smattering of a thick, white creme. An image of Georgi in the rink, _Viktor hasn't seen his family in years because of it,_ flashes before his mind. He feels vile.

Panic courses through his body like a circuit. He grabs his aching thighs, not wanting to feel them anymore.

He chokes. "It's really bad…"

Grandpa was out of his seat by the time Yuri's lungs constricted and tears leaked from his eyes. He kneeled down beside his grandson, grabbing his shoulders with loving eyes wide with fright.

"What could possibly be so bad, Yuratchka?" he said as Yuri lost control of his breath, now an erratic wheeze. "Oh, come now. Come here." He pulled him into his chest.

Yuri blubbered a shaky, "You don't wanna touch me…"

"Nonsense. I'll love you no matter what it is."

"You say that now, but when you find out you're gonna-"

"For Christ's sake, you're sending me to an early grave, child. Just tell me what's hurting you, and we'll cry together."

Yuri took the deep, soothing breaths Lilia told him to do before his competitions. He settled his nerves, and prayed his grandfather meant it. He spoke.

* * *

It is nighttime, and Yuri looks at the screen of his phone that reads, _how to ask out the guy you like._

* * *

"I'm still like what?" Viktor asked, perplexed. Yuri seethed and tugged at his hair.

"Like…. _this_!"

Viktor cocked a brow and patted the bench next to him. Yuri glared but plopped down anyway, unwilling to explain how it was that something Viktor would do at his wedding - to a man Yuri claimed not to care about in the first place - would tear him apart from the inside out. He didn't want Viktor to understand how significant he is to Yuri.

They were silent for a few minutes, taking in the sight of Hasetsu in the early months of spring: its warm breezes like strokes of calloused fingers on soft skinned backs, the rainbow of the receding sun. Things that reminded Yuri of anywhere but his apartment in Moscow, yet resonated "home" more than anywhere he'd lived in his life.

He didn't want Viktor to leave this place.

"I don't want to feel like I'm watching you get beaten in a bathroom whenever you have a freakout, but I do. So like, maybe you should get your shit together so you stop messing with me."

Viktor looked at him, and Yuri blushed, knowing he was telling him the truth for the very first time.

"Yura…"

"Don't rub it in, asshole."

There was a light laugh, and it floated through the breeze like a baby bird first learning to fly on its own.

"I won't, Yuri. And, honestly, I need you to know that I love Yuuri, and was never going to walk out of my own wedding."

"But what Phichit said hurt you."

"Yes, it hurt a bit. A lot of things still hurt. But I don't shatter so easily."

Viktor was the first to stand, as usual, and outstretched a hand for Yuri. Yuri's vision closed in on Viktor's smile - he was still so easily startled by seeing it sit there so genuinely - and Viktor's lips parted again.

"...and neither do you."

Yuri grabbed his hand and rose as well. He still wasn't as broad as Viktor: as strong and sturdy despite having been stomped on. But he was standing, and it felt good.

"Let's go back and see our boys, shall we? We've both waited far too long for this day as it is."

Yuri strolled beside Viktor, accepting the arm around his shoulders in this private, shared moment of honesty and reflection. This time, he knew that Viktor allowed him the semblance of walking beside him, because he knew he could: but Yuri decided he could allow himself the luxury of following Viktor for a little while longer, where he was protected, and where he was certain he'd always be taking steps forward.

Viktor reunited with Yuuri, and they kissed. Yuri glanced at Otabek, who smiled at him invitingly. It was time.


End file.
